


Living in Yesterday

by BlueSimba



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: F/M, GN Reader, Gender Neutral, I love the way he texts--it's hilarious, M/M, does hisoka really exist or is he an urban legend, for my friend dino because her thirst is unquenchable, the emoticons? beautiful, the murder clown is back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba
Summary: Throwing you away was nothing special, but he didn't expect you to leave before he was done with you. Almost was never enough for him.





	Living in Yesterday

This road is a narrow one whose stones are slightly uneven, just enough to angle your feet awkwardly. Bending behind the far-off horizon, the sun slinks away and leaves warm, muddled oranges and yawning yellows behind. The fading straps of your bag hang on your shoulders and hook themselves in. It’s not a problem, the temperature plummeting, or the road being an eerie sort of silence that’s struck you a few times too many, or the fact that the bag uncomfortably slumps on your back but isn’t too heavy, or, or, _or_ when your eyes peered into his molten ones and you somehow knew that today was the last day.

Your teeth sink and chew your bottom lip. Thick clouds roll by, grayish with a hint of something more, but never stop, not for you, not for anyone else. There’s no rain that drenches your clothes or clumps your hair together, no point where your hair sticks to every patch of skin on your head; as fat clouds lethargically pass by, there’s no drop of rain. Almost rain. Soon, maybe, but not right now, despite dried grass nearby screaming for it, pleading for rain. 

Maybe that’s the heaviest thing—there’s almost rain, your bag is almost awkward enough to be uncomfortable, how when he talked earlier he knew it was almost the end. He’d wear you out with secrets in his eyes smiling, flail you around until he wanted to stop. He doesn’t just move to the next toy and leave you stranded in feelings that once were. That kindness doesn’t course through his veins. Ripping out your stuffing was always his favorite part, figuratively, of course, but with the way he drains you and unravels all the parts that hurt just enough, it might as well be real. Shredded, torn, and unimaginable, that’s how he likes to leave you. 

The buildings you’re walking to sprout up, almost suddenly bigger than they were before, and you wonder, as they grow and the nearby city sign invites you in, if he’s thinking about you right now, if for only a second. Or two. Or three. Or maybe more because with a jolt of your heart, it feels good to leave him there, waiting in his suite for you. Maybe he isn’t waiting. Maybe he is. He could be standing there, smirking to himself, lips coiled in a way your eyes thirstily drank up. He could be doing anything, really, as long as it was amusing. 

When you step in the new city, when the air smells slightly different from before (a new flavor you’ll have to catalog in your brain), your phone vibrates in your pocket. Fishing it out, the screen blinks to life with a new message, one that you don’t need to read. The telling emoticons, a star and dripping tear, are enough. 

Your little surprise vanishing must’ve worked.

The corners of your lip tip upwards, and it must’ve been just interesting, just unexpected enough to reel his flickering eyes back to you.

You wonder if he hates the taste of _almost_ as much as you do.

Then, making you down a colorful cocktail of emotions and thoughts tangled together, you realize that he probably likes it. The strangled cocktail goes down too easily, too smoothly, like it bends to the curves of your throat naturally. 

This is how he likes you, almost, never finished, and his voice, his eyes, the way he moves sticks to your brain like a familiar gum.

He texted you a specific date, that was it, but the numbers in the text are heavy and telling. 

Almost was fine for a minute of his frazzling time, yet it could never be enough, never could be satisfying the way he likes to be satisfied. 

A countdown to pull out the rest of your stuffing.


End file.
